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Title: reflection
Fandom: Soulcalibur
Characters: Raphael Sorel, Amy
Rating: G
Words: 249
Summary: Amy, and learning what it means to be family.
Notes: whyyyyy can't i stoooop...
in any case, a piece of fluff, complete with questionable French. pre-SCII.
reflection
Amy sits in front of the small vanity, watching her reflection as Raphael brushes out the last few tangles in her hair.
"There," he says, letting her long red hair fall like fresh-spun silk over her shoulders. "You are as lovely as any princess, ma puce."
Amy shifts in her seat uncomfortably, unable to meet his eyes. She knows what Raphael means to do, but she can't imagine it will work. She takes in the sight of her reflection, of her brown eyes and red hair and small upturned nose, her rounded chin and heart-shaped face; there is nothing of Raphael's elegant, high cheekbones or firm jawline or pale gold hair or blue, blue eyes in her features. She could pass as nobility, maybe, but never as his blood; the truth is written too plainly in the darkness of her face.
She bites her lip, fighting back the urge to cry.
Raphael cups her chin in his hands, tilts her face towards his, away from the mirror and the cruel truth of her reflection. "What has upset you so, ma fille?"
The word falls from his lips without hesitation, without thought, and settles around her shoulders as warmly as a winter shawl. And suddenly it does not matter what she looks like or what he looks like: they are father and daughter, and no mere matter of blood - or lack of it - can break the bond they share.
She smiles.
"It is nothing, mon père."
Fandom: Soulcalibur
Characters: Raphael Sorel, Amy
Rating: G
Words: 249
Summary: Amy, and learning what it means to be family.
Notes: whyyyyy can't i stoooop...
in any case, a piece of fluff, complete with questionable French. pre-SCII.
reflection
Amy sits in front of the small vanity, watching her reflection as Raphael brushes out the last few tangles in her hair.
"There," he says, letting her long red hair fall like fresh-spun silk over her shoulders. "You are as lovely as any princess, ma puce."
Amy shifts in her seat uncomfortably, unable to meet his eyes. She knows what Raphael means to do, but she can't imagine it will work. She takes in the sight of her reflection, of her brown eyes and red hair and small upturned nose, her rounded chin and heart-shaped face; there is nothing of Raphael's elegant, high cheekbones or firm jawline or pale gold hair or blue, blue eyes in her features. She could pass as nobility, maybe, but never as his blood; the truth is written too plainly in the darkness of her face.
She bites her lip, fighting back the urge to cry.
Raphael cups her chin in his hands, tilts her face towards his, away from the mirror and the cruel truth of her reflection. "What has upset you so, ma fille?"
The word falls from his lips without hesitation, without thought, and settles around her shoulders as warmly as a winter shawl. And suddenly it does not matter what she looks like or what he looks like: they are father and daughter, and no mere matter of blood - or lack of it - can break the bond they share.
She smiles.
"It is nothing, mon père."
